March 26, 1992

After he was sure Sam had come back inside and shut himself into his room, Dean went to the bathroom to finish cleaning up. He stripped off his T-shirt and glared at it for a second before balling it up and throwing it against the door as hard as he could. It hit with an unsatisfactory whump and fell to the ground. He was going to have to throw it out. There was too much blood.

Looking into the mirror, his anger fizzled. The blood had dried on his face and in his hair, and he looked like some stupid horror movie casualty. Head wounds always bled so much. He touched his forehead. Running a washcloth under the faucet, he wiped the blood away from the place where the cut had been. The skin was perfect. No sign of it at all. No redness, no mark, no scar. No pain.

Dean wiped roughly at the rest of his face and neck with the cloth, scrubbing away the flaking blood, and if he mopped up a few tears, too, then so what?

After the last of the blood was washed away, he scooped up the ruined shirt and took it to the kitchen to bury in the trash before shutting himself up in his room. He found a cleanish shirt and put it on, then curled up on his bed, staring at the wood paneled wall and counting the lines in the grain to keep from thinking.

At least an hour later, he realized there were still dishes to be done from dinner. He rolled off the bed and trudged down to the kitchen. Washing the dishes became an exercise in meditation. Soap, scrub, rinse, dry, repeat. He was just finishing the last pot when the front door opened and his father stepped in. Dean had been so focused on his task he hadn't even heard the car.

Dad dropped his leather jacket over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and went to the fridge. He pulled out a beer and popped the top.

"Those dishes should've been done hours ago," he said. His words weren't slurred, so he wasn't terribly drunk, but he was louder than he needed to be, which meant he wasn't sober, either.

"Yes, sir. I'm just finishing," Dean answered, keeping his head down. Eye contact at times like this was only ever taken as 'attitude'.

He finished rinsing the pot and dried it on the towel that was too damp by now to dry much of anything. But when he reached up to put it away in the cupboard, he realized his mistake.

Dad thunked his beer down on the counter and yanked Dean around by the upper arm. The same arm he'd dislocated earlier. His dad looked him up and down with narrowed eyes until he focused on Dean's downturned face. He gripped Dean's jaw, forcing him to look up.

"What the hell?" he muttered, but he wasn't talking to Dean.

Realization burst over his dad's features as he put two and two together to get five. He twisted both fists into the front of Dean's shirt and swung him around to slam him against the wall hard enough to shake the trailer. The beer was sour on his breath as he shouted in Dean's face.

"How did you do it? That son of a bitch shouldn't be able to come within a hundred fucking miles of you. How did he heal you?"

"Dad, no, I swear-" He cut off with a grunt as his dad slammed him up against the wall again. Dean spluttered as the fists at his throat pressed tighter. He clawed and pushed, but he couldn't budge them. Fear choked him almost as much as the fists.

"Bullshit! You figured out some way to get around it, didn't you? You ungrateful little turd. Can't ever listen. Can't ever do as you're told. Now where the hell is Gabriel?" Red faced, his father shook in his rage and snarled through clenched teeth, "I'll find him, and I'll kill him. And then I'm gonna beat your ass until you damn well learn to do as you're told!"

"Stop it!" Sammy shrieked as he ran into the room. "Leave him alone!"

"Go back to your room, Sam." Dad never looked away from Dean's face as he warned Sam off.

Suddenly, a pair of skinny arms latched around one of Dad's and yanked.

"I'm not gonna tell you again, boy!"

Sam pulled again ineffectively at his father's iron grip on his brother, then pounded on his shoulder with one small fist. "Dad, stop! You're hurting him!"

"I said, go to your room!" Dad bellowed, and quick as a thought, he lashed out and backhanded Sammy across the face.

Time ground to a stop in the seconds afterward. Dean gaped at his baby brother, now sprawled on the kitchen floor with blood on his mouth, looking as shocked as Dean felt. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Dad never hit Sammy. Never. Dean made sure of it. He looked away from Sam to his dad.

Dad was frozen, too, eyes going back and forth between his son on the floor and the hand he'd struck him with. His face blanched, and he released Dean, dropping him as if he'd been burned and stumbling back a step with horror written across his face. "Fuck," he rasped.

Dean rushed to Sammy's side, pulling him in close and holding him tight, keeping his body between Sam and his father. Tears leaked down Sam's cheeks, and he trembled as he clutched at Dean's shirt, but he didn't make any noise at all. Dean turned Sam's face to examine the damage. His lip was already beginning to swell.

"Fuck," his dad breathed again. He looked around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time in his life. He turned back to meet Dean's glare, and for an instant, he almost looked ashamed.

But then Dad's face went hard again, and he snapped. "Pack your shit. You've got ten minutes. We're leaving."

"What?" It jumped out of Dean's mouth before he could catch it.

"I said we're leaving. If angels can get to you here, this place ain't safe. We're getting out." Dad leveled a warning finger his way. "Don't even think about giving me lip, boy. Move it! Now!"

Dean and Sam scrambled to their feet and raced to their rooms. Dad wasn't kidding. Whatever they didn't have with them in ten minutes would be left behind. Dean yanked his duffel bag from the closet. It already held most of the things he cared about, including the last two remaining pictures of his mom. He threw whatever clothes he could find into the bag – shirts, jeans, socks, underwear – and grabbed his pocketknife, his Walkman, and his travel first aid kit.

He lurched to a stop, staring at the first aid kit in his hands.

Castiel.

They were leaving, and Dean couldn't even say goodbye to Castiel. He couldn't apologize for yelling at him earlier. Couldn't thank him for healing him even when he was being a bitch about it. Couldn't tell him that they didn't want to leave him behind. Didn't mean to. And couldn't tell him that he would miss him. His fingers tightened around the plastic kit.

"Dean!" Dad's bellow reached his ears from outside, and he jumped back into motion, hauling his duffel over his shoulder by the strap.

He hesitated for just a second, then put the first aid kit in the middle of his bed. Hopefully Castiel would find the kit after they were gone and understand that it was the best he could do in the way of an apology.

Running out of the house, he threw his bag in the trunk with the others and clambered into the back seat next to Sam. Dad started the car with a roar, and spun out as he took off toward the main road. Dean turned on the seat, climbing to his knees to stare out the back window for a last, desperate look.

As they bounced down the long driveway, he could see the shed faintly illuminated by the outside security lights. The door was open wide, and he could see Castiel jogging across the yard toward them. Dean reached out to catch his brother's hand as much for his own comfort as Sammy's. Sam clutched him back tightly.

When they finally turned onto the highway, he could still make out Castiel, a solitary figure in the grass, watching them drive away.